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"...It is the effort to place capital on an equal footing with, if not above, labor in the structure of government. It is assumed that labor is available only in connection with capital; that nobody labors unless somebody else, owning capital, somehow by the use of it induces him to labor. This assumed, it is next considered whether it is best that capital shall hire laborers, and thus induce them to work by their own consent, or buy them and drive them to it without their consent. Having proceeded so far, it is naturally concluded that all laborers are either hired laborers or what we call slaves. And further, it is assumed that whoever is once a hired laborer is fixed in that condition for life!"
"What's going on?" Felgar asked. The insectoid stopped beside his friend, another insectoid.
"I don't know, he's been reading that speech for a while," Said Staker, blinking his large eyes. His neck turned like an owl.
They stood in the town square, outside the factory. The twin moons were on the right side of the planet to be visible during Work Hours. This being, a laborer, held several sheets of notes stapled together, and read from them.
"Now there is no such relation between capital and labor as assumed, nor is there any such thing as a free man being fixed for life in the condition of a hired laborer." Felgar and Staker tilted their heads. "Huh?"
"doesn't he know about my job?" Felgar asked.
"Maybe that's the point," said a hooded figure beside them. A crowd was gathering.
"...Both these assumptions are false, and all inferences from them are groundless!" The speaker shouted. "Labor is prior to and independent of capital. Capital is only the fruit of labor, and could never have existed if labor had not first existed. Labor is the superior of capital, and deserves much the higher consideration!"
"Uh oh." Staker murmured. His eyes went to a crowd of enforcers. "Felgar, we'd better go..."
The hooded figure grabbed his arm. "Stay."
The speaker continued, "The error is in assuming that the whole labor of community exists within that relation. A few men own capital, and that few avoid labor themselves, and with their capital hire or buy another few to labor for them!" The speaker shouted. He saw the enforcers coming. He scrambled to finish his speech, there is not of necessity any such thing as the free hired laborer being fixed to that condition for life!"
Staker blinked. "We... we don't need to stay like this?"
"No men living are more worthy to be trusted than those who toil up from poverty; none less inclined to take or touch aught which they have not honestly earned!" Felgar nodded. He didn't quite understand all the words, but... "He's right," said the figure again.
"Let them beware of surrendering a political power which they already possess, and which if surrendered will surely be used to close the door of advancement against such as they and to fix new disabilities and burdens upon them till all of liberty shall be lost!" The last word was strangled as an enforcer grabbed his arm.
"You're under arrest."
"Workers of the world unite! You have nothing to lose but your chains!" The speaker screamed.
"That's enough of that, Marxy!" One of the enforcers shouted.
The speaker's notes scattered. He struggled, "Long live the Lincoln Brigade! Long live the Lincoln Brigade!"
"What? I thought he was a Marxy!" Felgar gasped.
"Yeah, that's all Marx stuff!" Staker said. "What is a Marx, anyway?"
"He's a Lincolnite," said the hooded figure. The enforcers dragged the speaker away, still shouting his defiance.
When the opportunity arose, the hooded one snatched up the scattered notes. Staker noticed this, and grabbed Felgar. They followed the figure to an alleyway. "What was that all about? Some Marx thing?"
"He was quoting the humans," the being said. She flipped back her hood to reveal a canine snout. A wolfess, armed with an old needler and a cloak to hide her gear. The laborers gasped. "He's gonna get himself shot." Felgar said. He jerked his insectoid neck, "Why did you grab the notes?"
"I already have a copy. But someone's gotta carry it on. He was right, you know." The canine sighed. "They were right."
She sagged wearily. "Miss? You alright?" Staker asked.
"Someone has to keep going. Has to pick up the leash when it has fallen." The canine metaphor, one of love not enslavement, a distant memory of a time before gene mods, went over their heads. She sighed. "I'm tired. Soon everyone who remembers them will be gone." Suddenly she shoved the bundle of notes into their hands. "Someone has to carry it on. Keep it safe. And remember Mr Lincoln."
With that, the old loyal and faithful hound disappeared into the alleyway. The two insectoid beings stood there, watching her go.
Staker looked down at the paper on top. He squinted at a section of text that was underlined, and read aloud, "The dogmas of the quiet past are inadequate to the stormy present. The occasion is piled high with difficulty, and we must rise to the occasion. We cannot escape history. We will be remembered in spite of ourselves. The fiery trial through which we pass will light us down in honour or dishonour, to the last generation. We shall nobly save, or meanly lose, or last best hope of Earth."